


from the grief at the center

by perfectlystill



Category: Happiest Season (2020)
Genre: F/F, Homophobia, Missing Scene, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: The conversations become more regular: updates on what Riley made for dinner, banter about who they want the nextBacheloretteto be, the student in Abby's Intro class who argues every short answer question he gets wrong on the midterm based on death of the author despite every answer being unquestionably incorrect.They never talk about Harper.
Relationships: Abby Holland/Riley Johnson
Comments: 131
Kudos: 966





	from the grief at the center

**Author's Note:**

> The homophobia tag references the first scene in this story, which deals with Riley's outing and includes the d-slur. 
> 
> I went with the Riley Johnson tag because a) it popped up and b) that's how she's listed in the credits, even though the scene at the country club would make any logical person believe her last name is Bennett. 
> 
> Title from Margaret Atwood's "Variations on the Word Sleep."

The first time it happens, Riley's sitting in biology, writing the date in the top right-hand corner of her page. 

Skip Pierson struts in, flanked by two beefheads from the baseball team, stares a hole into her head and sneers, "Hey, dyke."

Riley's pencil pierces her notebook page, and she blinks. It's an icy strike of lightning through her body, freezing her from the inside and vibrating out. Her stomach rolls with a bout of nausea, but she says, dry and a little too quiet, "In your dreams."

He laughs, a sickening sound, and his buddy Gavin says, "We saw your little love note to Harper. She thinks you're a freaking creep."

It doesn't occur to Riley until later that they'll call her a dyke but haven't quite reached the threshold of _fuck_. Later (much later), it'll be mildly amusing, a bit of comedy to keep her afloat when she gets shoved in the hallway, when girls ask her to change in the bathroom stall before gym because they don't want her checking them out, when her mother asks if she's ever even kissed a boy, and if no (yes, it's a no), how she can _know_ , and when her father rents _Kissing Jessica Stein_ and shifts around uncomfortably while he forces her to watch with him. 

In the moment, she grinds her teeth as they laugh, taunting her, until Ms. Smith arrives and Riley bolts. 

She spends the rest of biology in the bathroom, and when she tries to approach Harper in the hall, like Skip, she's flanked by new friends who have never quite warmed to Riley. Harper's eyes are wide, scared, disgusted, and she whispers a request for Riley to leave her alone. 

Ashley spits, "She's not like you."

Harper's gone pale, but her cheeks are flushed pink with embarrassment. "Please leave me alone," she begs. "I'm not a lesbian."

Riley has syrupy sweet letters in Harper's handwriting that tell a different, more complicated story. If she presses them to her face and inhales, she can still smell a whiff of the perfume Mrs. Caldwell bought Harper at the mall to celebrate making it to state finals with the speech team. 

Riley's vision goes blurry, and she walks back to the bathroom as quickly as possible, head down, books pressed against her chest as heavy sobs wrack her body. She dry heaves into the toilet, crying so hard she gets lightheaded. 

But she doesn't vomit. At least there's that.

High school is hell. 

Riley has a smattering of acquaintances, people who like to do group projects with her because, not to brag, she's fucking smart, but Harper and her popular friends have turned Riley into such an outcast that even the nice kids don't really want to associate with her for fear of bringing down their own social standing.

It's fine, really.

Harper refuses to make eye contact, and eventually Riley stops looking for answers across the cafeteria. 

She earns a 5.0 GPA, acceptance into the University of Pennsylvania, develops a thick skin, becomes comfortable with her own sense of humor, and cultivates a confidence that keeps her from caring because Skip is just pissed she doesn't want to see his small dick.

It feels dark and twisted, looking for a bright side to being outed, to spending six months in both individual and family therapy, to the judgmental whispering of parents at graduation, so she stops. 

Riley likes who she was and who she is, and she decides it has nothing to do with Harper. 

Riley takes to Abby immediately. 

She's cute, has a sense of style that seems to fit with Riley's own, and her rambling about being an orphan/roommate/acquaintance is as endearing as it is funny, and Riley pushes down a real chuckle. She also enjoys the deer-in-headlights feeling radiating off Harper. 

She's mostly over what happened in high school, but moving on isn't the same as forgiveness, and Riley's made peace with never getting there. 

Sue her.

Later (not much), Riley will think it was kinship. 

She'll pity Harper for being in the same place as she's always been, knowing it's a really shitty sort of thing to think, especially for someone with firsthand experience of being outed and the terrible time that follows. She understands Harper's fear, because Harper feared being Riley. The feeling will ebb and flow with sympathy, with empathy, and with something that edges close to jealousy. 

And Riley will want to be for Abby what nobody was or could have been for herself. 

It's not a silver lining, but it is an excuse. It's someone she can talk to without the baggage of being the weird, gay girl in high school who wore too much black, someone she can offer understanding to as much as she can be understood. Someone she can sit with at The Oxwood, a pulse of connection threading between them in her hometown, a place she's felt disconnected from for over a decade. 

"So, you're like House?" Abby asks.

"Oh, you think I'm an asshole?"

Abby shakes her head, glancing at the pavement, small smile flirting around her mouth. "No."

"Eh," Riley says, shrugging. "I kind of am."

"You're not." She sounds certain, and it runs warm between Riley's ribs, viscous and sweet. "You're kind of saving me."

"My parents' financial planner was coming over for lunch, and he has this cyst on his back that I was going to be forced to examine multiple times as he scrolled WebMD, so it's a mutual thing."

Abby's laugh is quiet but it doesn't sound hidden or ingenuine. Many people take the opposite approach, laughing too loudly at Riley's statements, unable to parse whether she's kidding and wanting to save everyone involved the embarrassment of explanation. Instead of brushing her off, Abby sits in the moment with her, processing her amusement. It's refreshing. It's wonderful. It reminds Riley of her last girlfriend. 

"Are you hungry?" Abby asks, slowing her pace as they reach a crosswalk, unsure of the direction they're headed in. 

Riley takes her to a pizza place with red and white checkered tablecloths and booths with patched up tears. The fluorescent lights are a little harsh, but they're not given forks with their pizza, so the outcome is favorable. Teenagers have commandeered a table in the back corner, playing rap on somebody's phone that competes with the adult contemporary pouring through the speakers. Riley and Abby split a small pan and a pre-made Caesar salad, ice cubes melting quickly in their cokes. 

"Are you seeing anyone?" Abby asks, open and with only the barest hint of interest. 

Damn, that's basically nothing.

"Why? Are you?" Abby's forehead wrinkles, and Riley looks over her shoulder. "I haven't been haunted by that ghost in months." She waits for the eye roll before she answers. "My last girlfriend and I broke up when I started residency."

"Oh. Distance?"

"She gave me chlamydia."

Abby coughs, smacking her sternum with a closed fist. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs. "It sucked. I guess I'm bad at picking girlfriends."

It hangs between them, heavier than Riley intended, but Abby nods, swallowing. "Harper's just..."

"Working through some stuff," Riley finishes. 

"Yeah."

"Speaking of, how's that going?"

Abby bites her lip, turning to look out the window. Her shoulders are hitched, and Riley wants to reach out, set a hand on one, rub the top of her spine where she's sure Abby's carrying tension. "It's fine."

"Sorry."

"I want to--"

"You don't have--"

"It's the ex-girlfriend aspect of the whole... thing," Abby explains. "Like, I don't know. A bit of a lesbian cliché, isn't it?"

"What? Talking about your current relationship with your girlfriend's high school ex?"

Abby's mouth twitches up, and she rolls her shoulders back. A deliberate attempt at relaxation. "I'm learning a lot I didn't know."

"Meeting the family is like that," Riley says. Families reveal something about a person, good and bad, big and little, the peak behind the curtain forcing a new kind of intimacy. She's met the family twice and both experiences were awkward and stressful. She doesn't regret either. The story of Sara acting drunk off sparkling grape juice as a child and of Mel totaling the car while learning to drive are bright spots in Riley's memory. She felt closer to each of them after. 

She still shares Instant Pot recipe's with Sara's mother over Facebook. It's the only reason she doesn't eat takeout five times a week. 

"Yeah, but it's stuff I thought I knew, you know? Stories she told me about her life, except she left, like, major information out. As though I wouldn't like her if I knew the truth," Abby says, conflict pulling at her eyebrows, pulling down the corner of her mouth. 

"But you do," Riley says.

"I love her," Abby agrees, neutral. 

It pokes hot at Riley's lungs, and she takes a sip of soda to cool it. Wiggling her eyebrows, she says, "Come on, you know my dark dating past, give me your worst."

"Oh my god," Abby exhales, running a hand through her hair. But the spark is back in her eyes, and Riley stays leaning forward, eagerly taking in the story of Carrie and her cats. 

The party is the party, but Abby is even worse than before, Riley unable to distract her like she did while shopping and decidedly not-flirting over lunch. 

Things get overwhelmingly worse from there. 

Riley takes her leave with an apology from Harper that's too late and too little for the depth and breadth of the hurt. Riley didn't need it, and she doesn't accept it, but it's nice to have. If Harper is going to salvage anything, she'll have to salvage it with Abby. 

Riley returns to her childhood home and her newly redecorated childhood bedroom that now serves as a guestroom. She drinks half a glass of lukewarm water, reads through her emails, texts a friend. 

She doesn't text Abby, not wanting to overstep and wanting to at least give her the night to get her bearings. 

Her mother shows her the Caldwell family portrait midafternoon, complete with a loved-up Abby and Harper. The swell of a headache crests behind Riley's temple.

She and Abby text irregularly, little updates about Riley's sporadic (putting it kindly) dating life, her completed residency and her fellowship at NYU. Abby shares defending her dissertation and earning her doctorate. They send each other snaps while watching _The Bachelor_ , create an inside joke about umbrellas, and discuss romanticism as a response to modernity. Capitalism sucks, but they're doing okay, and neither of them really want to spend more than a weekend in a cottage surrounded by nature. 

The conversations become more regular: updates on what Riley made for dinner, banter about who they want the next _Bachelorette_ to be, the student in Abby's Intro class who argues every short answer question he gets wrong on the midterm based on death of the author despite every answer being unquestionably incorrect. 

They never talk about Harper.

Riley runs into Abby walking down Main St. while searching for a white elephant gift.

Or, more accurately, she runs into Abby and Harper, holding hands, the engagement ring on Harper's finger glinting in the bright winter Sun. It's a fairly modest, simple thing, and yet it's blinding. 

Riley smiles, eyes wide and brows raised. "Long time no see."

"Riley," Harper exhales, surprised, as though Riley's parents don't still live here, as though they don't go to the Caldwell's annual Christmas Eve party. "You remember Abby."

She says it in a tight, high voice that sparks something meddlesome in Riley's gut. Making a show of looking at a watch on her wrist that doesn't exist, she says, "Yeah, surprisingly haven't forgotten her since 18 hours ago when she sent me a video of her feet."

Harper frowns. "Um, I--"

"The new Christmas socks Jane knitted for everyone," Abby says. 

Harper is all knitted eyebrows and gaping mouth. 

"I was kidding," Riley says. "I don't have a foot fetish."

"You two..." Harper begins, looking between them. 

Winter came early this year, and it's meant to be long and bitterly cold, lasting into mid-April if climate change has anything to say about it, and the amusement Riley hoped to gain from this interaction flips around, dissipating into the air with her foggy breath. The wind is brittle against her face, and she clarifies, "We're just friends."

"Friends," Harper repeats, dropping Abby's hand to push at her forehead. She wears mittens instead of gloves. 

"Yeah," Abby says, hoarse. She clears her throat. 

Riley realizes, belatedly, that she's missing something, and she doesn't want to be part of whatever it is. "Um, I'll see you at the party."

She shoots Abby a look, mouthing, "Sorry."

Later comes at the party. 

Sidling up to Abby, Riley raises her glass and takes a sip in toast, then: "You and Harper okay?"

It feels odd floating between them. Their relationship began because Harper linked them together, and now she's been the elephant between them for so long, made small as to be ignored, that bringing her up feels wrong somehow. 

An apology formulates itself on Riley's tongue, but Abby beats her to the punch: "Not really."

"I'm sorry," she says anyway. 

"Me too."

She shouldn't ask, but in the same way children find it difficult not to pick at a scab, Riley cannot seem to help herself. "It's not because you texted me your feet, is it?"

Abby laughs, that quiet, private laugh that makes Riley's brain go fuzzy. She finds she's missed it disproportionally. "No."

"Good."

"Didn't help, though."

Riley takes another sip of mulled wine, allowing it to coat her tongue before swallowing it down. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Abby runs a hand through her hair, leaning against the wall she's cornered herself into. Harper's on the other side of the room in conversation with her father, and when she glances in Abby and Riley's direction, her jaw ticks. She looks away. "Do you want to get out of here?" Abby asks. 

"And miss white elephant?" Riley downs the rest of her drink. "Absolutely."

She likes white elephant. She likes watching everyone at the party try not to fight each other, clawing at any remnants of class within themselves as they struggle not to scratch anyone's eyes out for a juicer. It brings Riley inordinate amounts of joy, but if Abby wants to leave, she wants to go with her. 

It's windy out, dark until they hit the next street over and a stretch of neighborhood with houses close enough together that their Christmas lights create a warm sense of holiday spirit. Everything is still, quiet, and it stretches before them like a blanket of fresh snow, pretty and uninterrupted. Riley ponders ways to break it, their coats brushing together when they cross the street to the next block. She wants to apologize again, and she wants to pry, flexing her fingers in her pocket before balling her hands into fists. 

Abby and Riley stop in front of a house with intricate flashing lights and a sign with a radio station meant to accompany them. 

Abby says, "Harper got a job at _The New Yorker_."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it's-- it's great for her. She deserves it." Abby tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, her hand tremoring. "I'm really happy for her."

Riley cocks her head, noting the thin frown lines forming around Abby's mouth. "But?"

She sighs, a sad and exhausted sound that squeezes tight around Riley's heart. "It feels like we've been going in different directions. For like, a long fucking time. But we loved each other so much that it didn't matter, you know? Except it does. It does matter. It feels ridiculous to say it's about distance, but I like my job at UPenn."

"Tenure track," Riley adds.

"Yeah." Shaking her head, Abby blinks, readjusting her focus to the lights flashing before them. "I encouraged Harper to apply for the job. I just didn't realize I wouldn't want to go with her, and I can't make her stay." 

Riley nods. "Sucks."

Abby looks at her, and Riley's stomach twists. She doesn't look away, and she knows that's dangerous, but she's not a coward. Abby's eyes are piercing and lucid. "She didn't know we talk."

"Oh."

"I told her," Abby recants. "She knew I had your number, it's just..." she trails off, reaching up with a cold hand to rub at her mouth. "I didn't tell her we talk regularly."

Maybe Riley drank too much mulled wine because her face feels hot, blood pulsing just beneath her skin. "Why would you?"

"Because not telling her makes it feel like a secret."

An absence of guilt pools in Riley's stomach as much as the absence of anything can accumulate, tipping over into the thrill of what could fill it. Abby's nose is pink with cold, her lips visibly chapped, bitten or both. She's cute, and Riley imagines a world where she does something immensely cliché like kissing her to warm her up. "Is it?" she asks.

"Not a day goes by where I don't think about you."

Riley nods, a soaring feeling beginning to swell in her chest curbed by the visible distress on Abby's face. "For the record, I think about you every day, too. It's why I text you stupid things like which root vegetable is the best and ask you to rank the _Bachelorettes_ on a scale from least to most homophobic."

That gets a smile out of Abby.

Nothing has been decided or resolved, but it's soothing to know Riley's not alone in her relationship with Abby. She's not misreading a goodnight text, willing something into existence by sheer force of ignorant delusion. Riley has always felt less alone with Abby, even when she didn't know her, even when it's simply a text on her train ride home from the hospital after an awful shift. The mutuality of it thrums through Riley's body, more relieving than happy, and she believes that relief might be better than joy. 

"Mulled wine?" Abby asks.

She fumbles unbuttoning her coat, the heat of the Caldwell house a prickly balm for her cold fingers. "Hot chocolate?"

"I need the alcohol."

Riley poorly suppresses a smile, and Harper barrels into their bubble, grip tight on Abby's arm, a panicked, frantic energy in her eyes. "Where were you?"

Abby clears her throat, coat still in her hands. "I went for a walk."

"You missed white elephant."

"I'll survive losing my chance at a new French Press," she says. 

Harper's gaze turns to Riley, and Riley offers a smug grin. "Hey."

"Riley," Harper says, terse, anger threading through her name. "I need to talk to my _fiancée_."

Raising her eyebrows at Abby in confidence and support, Riley allows that anger to stitch her up, poking through the petty fabric that counts as her and Harper's new dynamic, or, at least, Riley's new dynamic with Harper. "I'll be by the cocoa."

The hot chocolate is decadent, dark and creamy, warm in Riley's hands as Mrs. Lis explains her forgetfulness, mildly worried about dementia and Alzheimer's, more concerned with some untreated brain tumor Riley is 95% sure doesn't exist. It's par for the course at these events, and while it blows, it's leagues better than being purposefully ignored. 

"I couldn't for the life of me remember where I'd put my keys," Mrs. Lis says, explaining normal human forgetfulness. 

Riley hums, feigning interest. 

She spots Harper heading their way, hurt and fury breaking through the pleasant mask she wears. "Pardon, Mrs. Lis, but I need to borrow Riley. It's an emergency." 

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Lis exclaims, hand fluttering over her heart. "I hope everything's okay."

"It'll be fine," Harper grinds out, hand wrapping around Riley's wrist and pulling her away. 

Riley tugs her arm free. "No need to manhandle me."

She follows Harper up the stairs and into her childhood bedroom. It looks remarkably the same, and inexplicably, it feels like someone's crushing Riley's heart's like an empty soda can. She used to lie on the bed with Harper, flipping through magazines, mocking Gavin's cracking voice, and throwing their heads over the edge so the blood would rush to their brains. They had their first kiss huddled beneath the sheets, chaste, soft and sweet. This room used to feel like a second home, but it smells different now. A dream that turned into a nightmare and died beneath fading stars. 

"Do you feel better?" Harper asks.

Riley frowns. "About what?"

Harper laughs, sharp, hysterical and abrupt. "Abby dumped me."

"What does that have to do with me?" 

"You've been flirting with her for what, two years? Trying to-- to convince her to leave me? Get revenge for what happened between us in high school?" Harper accuses, her face mottled with an angry flush. Her words are cruel, but Riley can see the cracked and broken bits inside her that haven't mended from a breakup that cannot be more than five minutes old. It's sad more than anything actually hurtful; Harper forfeited her power to hurt Riley some time between sophomore and junior year. 

Scoffing, Riley says, "Our relationship doesn't actually revolve around you. Before tonight, we hadn't talked about you in over a year and a half."

Harper blinks, taking it in. "I don't..."

"I'm not lying to you. If flirting with me was anything, it was a symptom, not the problem." A beat, and then, with humor that's only funny to herself: "Trust me, I'm a pathologist."

Harper's exhale is characterized the same way as her laugh. She blinks, tears swimming in her eyes. "She lied to me about you. She, she-- she told me to apply for the job at _The New Yorker_ , and she's not coming with. I told her we could do long-distance. I told her I wouldn't take it but she won't--" Harper hiccups around a sob. "She won't stay."

"She's not leaving you for me," Riley says. "I'm in Boston."

Harper's face crumples, and she covers it with her hands, crying in earnest. 

It's a private moment Riley doesn't feel privy to, so she whispers an apology and leaves. 

It strikes her that it would've been kinder to let Harper believe Riley purposefully wedged herself between them, a long con to hurt the first girl who ever broke her heart. But it's not the truth. Harper forced her to stop lying long ago, and she won't lie for her benefit now. Riley feels no ill will toward her, but she likes Abby as she is, completely separate from a knotty past with their newly shared ex. Abby's a funny, intelligent, endearing woman who causes Riley to grin at her phone until her cheeks hurt.

They're friends, and Riley might want more than that, but that's all it is, a want. 

"My mother's insufferable," Riley complains, shoving her feet into synthetic leather boots.

"I've heard," Abby chuckles. 

"I don't want to go on a blind date with the one friend of a friend who has a gay daughter currently in town." She wraps her scarf around her neck before grabbing her coat from the closet. "She lives in Houston? How does she not melt?"

"Maybe she's like, not a witch."

"Disappointing," Abby sighs. "Are you ready?"

"I've literally been downtown since 6:30 this morning."

Riley frowns, picking up her purse. "Shit. I'm sorry."

She can't know, and yet she's certain Abby shrugs. "It's fine. Tipper made up Jane's old bedroom, insisted I stay. John's coming to pick me up tonight."

"Not to make this about me, but god, I'm such a shitty friend," she says, her attempt at levity working if the amused huff she hears is anything to go by. "Okay, like, I know we were going to get pizza, but if you walk down Pine toward the antique shop and turn left the street before, there's a pub that serves alcohol on the right side that opened at 11."

"Perfect."

Abby's the only person in the place, tucked in a booth in the back. The lighting is dim and warm, forming a halo around her head. There are bags beneath her eyes, an exhaustion in the heavy set of her shoulders, and Riley smiles sympathetically, waving from across the room. "Hey."

"Hi." Abby attempts a weak smile. 

"Sorry I'm late."

Abby squints at the clock on the wall behind Riley's head. "You're eight minutes early."

"Whatever. Did you order?" she asks, grabbing a menu and flipping it open. She's only been here a handful of times, always by herself late at night. It feels odd with the sun streaking through the front blinds, more concrete than the liminal space she knows it as, a place to get away from her parents, have a drink and eat some cheese fries. 

"Nope." 

"Great, I'm buying."

"Riley, you don't have to--"

"I want to," Riley insists. "I didn't get you a Christmas present, so you're going to drink one of those gross Blue Moon's you like and split cheese fries with me."

Abby's mouth twists in wry humor. "I didn't get you a present, either."

Riley folds her menu, folds her hands on top of it, straightening her spine and making eye contact that's far too serious and intense. "You're my present this year."

Ducking her head, some hair falls into Abby's face as she laughs, luminous. There's a generosity to her, even brokenhearted, that Riley admires; she's kind in a way Riley has had to actively learn to be, her guard causing her to hold people at a distance. It's easy to let Abby in, though, and Riley believes it's more about who Abby is rather than Riley's nebulous but always present feelings for her. Abby's an easy person to care for and love, and Riley understands why losing her would turn anyone briefly vicious. 

They order lunch with an additional side of cheese fries to share, and Riley does her best to distract Abby until she rubs at a groove in the wooden table with her thumb, bottom lip tucked between her teeth, eyes soft and bright and sad. "Thank you," she says, quiet. 

"I didn't do anything."

Abby sighs, smoothing a hand over her hair. "You've been really great."

"If I was really great, I would've been downtown before 6:30 this morning buying you a donut from the fancy coffee shop on Main St."

Abby takes a pull of her beer and wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. "I know I did the right thing. I just wish it didn't feel... like this."

"I know." Reaching across the table, Riley grabs Abby's hand, giving a gentle squeeze. Her hand is cold, but her skin is soft, and the corner of her mouth turns up in a peaceful, doleful smile.

Abby squeezes back, and Riley feels it around her heart. 

Wedging her phone between her shoulder and ear, Riley readjusts her grip on her chopsticks as she picks up her spoon to scoop up some broth. "Yeah, my interview's Thursday afternoon."

"Will you be up for dinner after?" Abby asks. 

"And drinks. To celebrate or commiserate." Riley swallows the broth, setting her spoon against the side of her bowl. The pho she made is exceptionally excellent today, and she mentally pats herself on the back, cataloguing it as something to make for Abby the next time she visits.

"You'll do great. They'll love you."

Riley huffs a laugh, picking at her noodles. "I am a catch."

"Totally," Abby agrees.

"You just want me to move to Philly."

Abby coughs. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Their daily texts have been supplemented by phone calls, Abby reading out articles she's utilizing to develop her next paper for publication, Riley ranting about a coworker who thinks he always knows best because he's a straight white man with a genealogy that includes connections to the United States' founding fathers. 

Abby stays on the phone with Riley whenever Riley has to work nights, keeping her company on the sparse T rides before commuters begin heading to work in earnest. Riley accidentally fell asleep once and missed her stop, and Abby laughed, but she's never not picked up when Riley's called. Abby even called Riley while she waited on the platform one morning, mild concern brightening her deeper morning voice and Riley's mood. They say goodnight more days of the week than not, and she's the first person Riley called when she booked the interview in Wilmington. 

It's a good hospital, good for pathology, and only about 40 minutes from Philadelphia. Both of those things are important to Riley in a sick and twisted way, bubbling with something a lot like falling for someone. She wouldn't want the job if it wasn't a promotion from where she is now, and it's nice to let her mind drift over the possibility of a doable daily commute, of seeing Abby every week. Riley won't fantasize about a commute to a shared place. She allows the idea to remain hazy while knowing it's in reachable distance. She could hold it, warm and soft between her fingers, heavy and poignant in the palm of her hand.

Abby meets Riley outside Abyssinia, greeting her with a warm smile and even warmer hug. It somersaults in Riley's chest, tingling down her spine and bubbling everywhere. Abby smells fresh and clean like soap, and Riley inhales, pretending to stumble with the force of their embrace just to hear Abby laugh, a rolling sound that thunders pleasantly around Riley's brain.

"It's good to see you," Abby says with soft sincerity, stepping toward the restaurant and away from the people trying to pass them on the sidewalk. 

"You, too."

"How'd the interview go?"

Riley shrugs one shoulder, mouth slanted in a smirk. "Pretty good."

She was more anxious than she normally is, but Riley's gotten impeccably good at hiding her nerves. She's a great interviewee, her answers prepared, succinct and nuanced, perfectly calibrated to make herself look good without seeming unrealistic, a sense of self-awareness and self-motivated drive propelling her forward. The banter with the panel felt more natural than it had any right to, and they seemed to like her plenty. They'll call Riley by the end of next week. 

The restaurant is packed, relaxed and easy to relax into.

"I used to come here all the time during undergrad," Riley says before taking a bite of ayib to sooth some of the heat stuck at the back of her throat. 

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's open until two," she says. "Perfect for a second dinner to get you through an all-nighter."

"It's my favorite restaurant in the city," Abby says, amazed disbelief floating around her face. 

Riley hums, pressing down on a smile that comes out regardless. "Good taste."

After dinner, they take Abby's car back to her apartment. They roll the windows down, the spring breeze prickling goosebumps on Abby's arms, and Riley throws her blazer back on to keep warm. She fiddles with the radio, doing funny voices as she sings along to the soft rock her father raised her on.

The night doesn't feel particularly magical, but it's the first time they've seen each other in mild weather. The white winter that started their relationship, the frozen ice they kept skating on, the sticky heat of summer when Abby flew out to visit Riley, and now a clement spring, flowers just beginning to bloom, turning up allergies from the dirt and reminding Riley to treasure health in a way that's different and more palatable than all the cases she sees at the hospital. It's nice. 

Abby's apartment is cozier than Riley's, filled with knickknacks that make a place feel like home, notes to herself scrawled in sloppy penmanship and stuck on the refrigerator with novelty magnets; there's a particularly busty Betty Boop that makes Riley run her tongue over the ridges of her teeth, delighted. 

They settle onto the loveseat with glasses of vodka and coke, their conversation flowing easily from the books they're reading to the student failing out of Abby's Intro class to Riley's new obsession with plastic surgery shows. 

A naturally occurring dip in the conversation settles between them, quiet, pleasant and warm. Abby casually breaks it: "Are you still seeing Frances?"

Riley tucks her legs up, folded to her left, shifting so her knees point directly at Abby. "Occasionally."

"It's going well?"

Riley smirks over the rim of her glass. "We fuck. Neither of us are really interested in a relationship."

"Right." Abby nods, contemplating, a jittery energy sparking visibly beneath her skin. 

Riley likes it, feeling a shift in the air between them, teetering toward something that's been unspoken for a long time, from the first Christmas they ever met until now, lying dormant but stretching in the sun of spring. "Are you seeing anyone?" she asks, low, unmissable suggestion buoying the question. 

Abby takes a sip of her drink before reaching back to set it on the cluttered end table. "No. Nope." 

Riley mirrors the action as best she can, settling for the coffee table between the sofa and Abby's desk. "Okay."

Thick tension permeates the room, and Riley's mouth twitches, ready to break it when Abby lunges forward, both hands on Riley's shoulders until one slides to the back of her neck, fingertips brushing where skin meets the hair at the base of her skull. Riley shivers and Abby kisses her, hard and passionate. 

Riley kisses back, one hand finding a home on Abby's hip, the other reaching up to cradle her cheek. Desire and heat flare in the pit of Riley's stomach, Abby nibbling at Riley's bottom lip to get her to open up, pushing her tongue into Riley's mouth in a way that pulses between Riley's legs almost immediately. It'd be embarrassing if Abby knew how quick. They move in sync to a better, more tenable position, Riley's back against a squishy couch cushion, Abby straddling her lap. 

Abby kisses along her jaw, and Riley breathes heavy, oxygen returning to her brain. "Wait," she says. 

"Hmm," Abby hums against her skin, heart-startlingly wonderful.

"Wait." Riley grasps Abby's hip, fingers digging in, sneaking a hand between them to splay her palm across Abby's collarbones. 

"What?" Abby asks, mouth wet, eyes blown, brow furrowed, beautiful. 

"I might not get the job."

Abby blinks a few times, dazed look leaving her eyes as she audibly exhales, leaning back and running a hand through her hair. "Does that matter?"

Riley shakes her head. "Does it matter to you?"

"I don't give a fuck."

"Thank god," Riley says, pulling Abby down for another kiss, searing and sensual, hand tugging at Abby's button-up until it frees itself from her black jeans. "The way you rolled your sleeves up your arms at dinner was mean."

Abby laughs into her mouth, countering, "You wore a skirt."

"Touché." 

Lust and attraction press their bodies together, but it's their twin smiles that press something deeper between them, something almost tangible. It glows vibrant and warm from deep in the center of Riley's chest, weaving her in a tight, clean stitch to Abby.

Later (just shy of three months), Riley will call it love.

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the movie and immediately, absolutely lost my mind over these two. Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saoirseegot) or [tumblr](https://amyabbotts.tumblr.com/), embarrassing myself constantly. Kudos and comments appreciated, and thanks for reading!


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